Mother's Day
by TracyJean
Summary: Leading up to Mother's Day, Harm reflects on his relationship with his mother through a series of flashbacks. This story is a sequel to my series Can't Fight This Feeling.
1. Chapter 1

This story was started in 2003 and sat unfinished on my hard drive until this year. Ironically, when I originally wrote it, the framing story was written as taking place in 2009, making this the perfect year to finish this story. The story alternates between flashbacks and the present day framing story and is a Mother's Day story about Harm and his mother.

This story is a sequel to my Can't Fight This Feeling series. As a reminder, here's where things stand. Harm and Mac got married in September 2000 and had twins Matt and Sarah in February 2001. In the story A Time To Mourn, they had a third child, Elizabeth, born in June 2006. Also in that story, it was mentioned that Sergei was going to ask his girlfriend Lisa to marry him and that Trish and Frank were planning to move to DC to be closer to their family.

Through the course of this story, a few events that took place on the show are worked into the story, although the circumstances changed in some cases (for instance, Harm did crash into the Atlantic in May 2001, although he obviously wasn't rushing back for Mac's wedding to Mic). Thankfully, no Paraguay for obvious reasons (and no Mattie, although I originally did try to figure out a way to work her into the story).

* * *

_25 DECEMBER 1969_

_LA JOLLA, CALIFORNIA_

_"Mommy, look! Just like Daddy flies!" I hold up the plane for Mommy to see. She smiles and ruffles my hair. I pull away, not wanting that kind of attention. I'm getting too old for that._

_"Very nice," she says, stepping back and snapping my picture with the camera in her hands._

_I look the model plane over, turning it in my hands, studying it from every angle. I look up at Mommy, my voice serious, "Do you think Daddy got the presents we sent?"_

_"He should have," she replies. "We sent them in plenty of time to get to the Tico by Christmas. You want to listen to the tape Daddy sent?"_

_"Yes!" I yell, bringing another smile to Mommy's face. Daddy's tapes are the greatest. It sounds like he's right here with us. If I close my eyes, I can pretend he's here._

_Mommy takes the tape that came in the package of presents from the Tico and puts it in the player, starting the tape. She sits on the floor next to me and pulls me into her lap as the tape begins._

_…Merry Christmas, Trish and Harm. Or I hope that it is Christmas when you're listening to this. I tried to send it in plenty of time to get to California, but you never know with the mail. Anyway, if Christmas is already over, I hope you had a good one._

_I'm in between missions right now. I should be sleeping, but I wanted to get this out on the next COD. Same old going on around here. I take off, fly missions, and then come back safe and sound. I almost forgot. There is a little bit of excitement going on around here. The Captain announced that Bob Hope and his USO troop are coming to the Tico on the 23rd. I think Phyllis Diller is going to be here and that singer, Jenny Lake. You should hear some of the guys. We haven't had liberty in a while, so nobody's seen any...well, you get the idea, Trish. I hope I'm not off on a mission that day. I'd love to see the show._

_Harm, what do you think of the Phantom model? I picked it up in Hawaii when the Tico was on the way to 'Nam. It reminds me of that day on the Hornet. I have that picture of you sitting in the cockpit of my plane. I carry it in my flight suit every time I go up, that way you're with me all the time._

_Hey, Hammer. You planning on getting to sleep anytime soon?_

_Hey, guys, ignore Tom. He's just grouchy because....well, just because. If he would just go back to his own quarters..._

_Don't listen to him. My roommate was keeping me awake, so I came here to try to get some sleep. You'd be grouchy, too. Merry Christmas, Trish, Harm._

_Anyway, just five more months and I'll be home. I hope for good this time. I don't know, Trish. Sometimes I...hey, it's Christmas. This is a happy time, right? So, Harm, have you been working on your swing the way I told you? And I hope you're not giving your mother a hard time... well, too hard of a time. Take care of her for me, Harm._

_Look, I need to get this in the mail and let my poor wing man get some sleep here. I love you guys and I'll see you real soon. May will be here before you know it and I'll be with you again…._

_"When's May, Mommy?" I ask as she reaches to turn the player off._

_"Well, let's look," she says, setting me on the floor and getting up. I follow her to the desk, where she picks up a calendar. "Here's December 25th then in one week, it will be January." She turns the page to another filled with blocks and numbers. "There's thirty-one days in January, then comes February with twenty-eight days, then March with thirty-one, the April with thirty, then it will be May." She turns the pages as she lists each month, so that I can see the passage of time._

_"Then Daddy will be home?" I ask hopefully._

_"Yes, Daddy will..." she stops when the doorbell rings._

_"I'll get it, Mommy," I say, running off for the door. I open the door and look up to two men, dressed in uniforms like I remember seeing Daddy in before. Dress blues, I think he called them. I recognize one of the men as the priest at church. We just saw him this morning at Mass. He said a special prayer for all the guys like Daddy who have gone away and aren't home for Christmas. "Hello, Father McNally."_

_"Hello, Harm," Father McNally says, not smiling. That's odd. He's always smiling. "Where's your Mom?"_

_"Mommy!" I call out. "It's Father McNally."_

_Soon, Mommy is coming to the door and she's not smiling either when she sees the two men. "Harm, come here," she says, her voice shaking, holding out her arms to me. "Please come to Mommy."_

_Mommy sounds...scared and I'm scared now, too. Slowly, I walk to her, taking hold of her hand. I look up at her, wondering what is wrong. Then Mommy's arms are around me and I'm going up into her arms. As she kisses my cheek, I feel something wet. Why is Mommy crying?_

* * *

5 MAY 2009

MCLEAN, VIRGINIA

"Daddy?"

I turn at the sound of the voice behind me, seeing my oldest daughter standing behind the couch, looking over my shoulder. I start to close the photo album, but Sarah leans forward and puts her hand on the page, stopping me. "How old were you?" she asks, pointing to the picture that I was just looking at.

"Six," I reply quietly, staring at the photo again. It was the last idyllic moment of my childhood; just minutes before my world came crashing down around me. "It was Christmas 1969."

"What kind of plane is that you're holding?" Sarah asks, motioning towards the model in my hands. I smile. Of course that would be one of the questions she would ask. Of my children, Sarah is the one who has shown the greatest interest in planes and in being a pilot.

When she was about five months old, we were going to Michele Mattoni's christening and I was in my dress whites. I had picked her up out of her crib and as I held her to my chest, tiny fingers immediately latched onto my gold wings. Sarah swears that I had the biggest smile on my face for the rest of the day as I proudly told everyone what my daughter had done, while she had just rolled her eyes. Someone – I don't remember who now – tried to suggest that she was simply drawn by the bright, shiny pin, but I would not be dissuaded. My little girl was going to follow in my footsteps. I was convinced of it.

When my daughter got older and got into that phase every child goes through when every sentence out of their mouths is a question, she had pointed at my wings and asked, "Wat dat?" When I took the twins to their first air show, Matt fell asleep – despite all the noise – but Sarah spent the entire show staring up at the sky, gazing with fascination at the planes flying overhead. After I took each of them for their first ride in my Stearman, Sarah was the one constantly begging me to take her up again. Not that Matt doesn't like to fly – he does like it in the same way that his mother likes flying in the Stearman - but Sarah loves it. She's the one who always listens enraptured when I tell tales of my flying days. I was right about her. Someday, she'll be the next Rabb to wear gold wings, following in the proud tradition of her great grandfather, grandfather, father and uncle.

"It's an F-4 Phantom," I reply as she comes around the couch and sits down next to me, leaning against my side. I put an arm over her shoulder and pull her closer. "It was the Navy's fighter plane before the Tomcat. That's what your Grandpa Harmon flew in Vietnam. He gave me the model for Christmas that year."

She studies the photo for a moment, and then I can see her glance at me out of the corner of her eye, her manner contemplative. Finally, she asks, "What happened to Grandpa Harmon?"

I'm silent for a moment, pondering how to answer the question. This is the first time that any of the kids have asked what happened to my father. They know that he's dead – or that he's an angel, as we had told them about Gram when she died a few years ago. They've been to the Wall. They've just never asked for any of the details before. Grandpa Harmon being dead was just another fact of their lives up until this point, something that Mommy and Daddy told them and they took on faith.

"Well," I begin hesitantly, still trying to figure out in my mind how much to tell her. Even after nearly forty years, that wound hasn't quite healed yet. It just doesn't hurt as much as it used to. "He was flying Phantoms off the aircraft carrier Ticonderoga in the waters off Vietnam. On Christmas Eve, 1969, he was flying a mission when he was shot down. He became a prisoner and was taken to Russia with some other pilots. He escaped from a prison camp in 1980 and died two years later. A few months later, your Uncle Sergei was born."

"This was taken on Christmas, 1969, you said," she states, looking at the picture again. "The day after Grandpa was shot down."

I nod. "Just after the picture was taken," I tell her, "the base chaplain and another officer came and told us about Dad. I think Mom knew what they were going to say before they even opened their mouths. I knew something was wrong, too, but I was too young to understand what. Father McNally wasn't smiling, not like he had been at church that morning."

"If Grandpa Harmon was your Dad, what about Grandpa Frank?" she continues. "When did he come around?"

"Mom met him when I was eleven," I reply. "She married him two years later when I was thirteen."

She looks pensive for a moment, and then counts on her fingers. "So it was just you and Grandma Trish for five years," she concludes. "Wasn't it hard, being without a Daddy? I can't imagine being without you."

I'm not sure how to answer that. There are different ways I could answer that question. I mean, after Dad was gone, Mom and I were taken care of. Gram helped out a lot and Mom's parents were still alive at the time. We had Dad's military benefits, so money never was that big a concern, even before Frank came along. As far as material things go, things were no different than when Dad was still with us. We had a place to live and food on the table.

Emotionally…now that's a different story. Sometimes I would….well, not forget....but it would seem like Dad was just off on another mission, just like always. But then I would remember that Mom had told me Dad wasn't coming home every time I asked. Not ever again. Not that I was willing to believe her, but that's what she told me, so eventually I learned not to ask. Looking back now, I figure that Dad was probably at home less than half of my life up until he was shot down. So from that standpoint, things weren't that much different. It was only when I was a little older, when I understood the difference between being gone on another cruise and Missing in Action and Killed in Action that I had started to realize just how different my reality was.

"Daddy?"

I shake my head. I've always tried to be honest with my children. It's just that this is still a difficult topic. I may be forty-five years old, nearly forty years removed from that bleak Christmas Day, but somewhere deep inside, that six-year-old boy still resides, not ready to accept that his father will never walk through the front door again. Maybe it would be different if there was a grave that I could visit – and not the empty one up at the farm - but the secret of where Dad is buried went with Sergei's uncle to his grave.

"I'm sorry, Sarah," I say, closing the album and dropping it back on the coffee table. I'm not even sure why I started looking through the thing, except that it was out, lying on the coffee table. I guess I need to have a talk with the twins again about putting things away after they're done with them. "In some ways, everything was the same as before. We had a home, we had food to eat, and we had money in the bank. In others…it was difficult trying to understand that my Dad would never come home again. I'm not sure how…Do you remember when Gram died?"

Sarah shrugs her shoulders and gives me an uncertain look. They say that time heals all wounds. Maybe Matt and Sarah are too young to remember that far back, or they were too young back then to clearly remember it now. Sometimes, I think time didn't heal my wounds where Dad was concerned because I wouldn't let it. I held onto my belief that Dad was alive like a child holds onto a security blanket or a favorite toy. "Well, you and Matt didn't really understand that Gram wasn't going to be around anymore," I explain gently. "When we told you that she was going to Heaven, you even asked when she would be returning."

"But people don't come back from Heaven," she says, sighing sadly. Again, that was a lesson that only time could teach. I think it took about six or eight months before the twins stopped asking when they were going to see Gram again. They finally figured out on their own – just as I had so many years before - that no matter how many times they asked, the answer would always be the same.

"No, they don't," I agree. "But we didn't know that your grandpa was dead, and we now know that he wasn't dead at that time, not for many years yet. All we knew was that he was missing, so I kept believing that he would someday come home. In that way, it was difficult and became more so every day that passed and he didn't come home. But I think that it was harder on Mom."

"I don't understand," she says. "I mean, I know Grandma Trish was sad because Grandpa Harmon was missing, right? So were you. So why would it be harder?"

"I guess because she had to deal with my grief as well as her own," I explain. I don't think that this makes any sense to her. She looks a little confused. "You know, parents are supposed to take care of their children. She had to take care of me, try to help me deal with what I was feeling, while trying to deal with everything that she was going through. She didn't really have anyone to take care of her, not all the time. So it was like a double burden, I guess you could say."

"But then Grandpa Frank came along," she points out matter-of-factly. "He could take care of Grandma. Things got better then, right?"

"I don't know if you could say that," I say vaguely, realizing that we're sailing into rough seas here. As far as my children have always known, Frank is my Dad and their grandfather. He's been a part of my life now for nearly as long as my father was alive. They just don't know how much I used to resent his presence in our lives. They don't know that the first time that I called him Dad was a mere three weeks before the twins were born. The only thing that they've ever seen between the two of us is a warm and loving father-son relationship. I don't think I'm ready to get into that with my kids yet. "Hey, didn't you say that you have a math test tomorrow? Shouldn't you be studying?"

"I was," Sarah protests.

"Well, you should get back to it," I insist. Then I pull out the trump card. Hey, it's dirty, but it's time to nip this conversation in the bud. "You know, if you want to be a pilot, math's very important."

I knew that would get her. "Okay," she pouts, rolling her eyes. "I'm going. Later, Daddy."

After Sarah takes off upstairs, my eyes go back to the photo album in front of me. I haven't really thought about a lot of this stuff in years. It's always been in the back of my mind, but after my first trip to Russia, I'd managed to find a kind of peace with Dad's memory, Mom's need to move on, Frank's presence, everything. But this conversation has opened a can of worms and another memory floats to the surface of my thoughts…

* * *


	2. Chapter 2

FEBRUARY 1975

LA JOLLA, CALIFORNIA

_"Mom, I'm home," I call out, tossing my book bag on the floor next to the door. I know Mom will probably tell me to pick it up as soon as she sees it, but I still leave it there. I do it every day. And every day she tells me to pick it up. It's almost become a routine with us, comforting in its familiarity._

_I wander into the kitchen, hoping to grab a snack out of the fridge without Mom knowing, but she's sitting at the dining room table, drinking coffee with a man I don't recognize. "Hello, darling," she greets me brightly. "How was school today? How did your math test go?"_

_"Fine and fine," I reply, trying to ignore the presence of this man that Mom's with. He's not threatening or anything, but…I don't know. I can feel something different – about Mom, about everything - and this man has to have something to do with that. For some reason that I can't pinpoint, he bothers me._

_"Harm, this is Frank Burnett," she introduces us. Mr. Burnett smiles at me, but I don't return it. Suddenly, I've lost interest in the hoped for snack and I just want to go outside and shoot some hoops. "Frank, this is my son, Harm Rabb."_

_"It's nice to meet you, Harm," Mr. Burnett says, holding out his hand. I hesitate, but take it on a stern look from Mom, making sure to keep the shake brief. If Mr. Burnett notices, he doesn't let on, continuing to smile as I pull my hand away. "Your mother talks about you all the time."_

_"Hello, Mr. Burnett," I say, keeping it short and simple. He won't be around long. I know that Mom has dated on and off the last few years. Mom has even brought one or two men around here before, but they've only come by once, never to be heard from again. I hope that it's because Mom knows that Dad's coming home someday, although one man did say that he didn't like me, that I wasn't at all like Mom described. Well, I didn't like him implying that Mom had lied about me and neither did she._

_"Please, call me Frank," he says pleasantly. _

_"Fine," I mutter, ignoring the look from Mom this time. It doesn't matter what I call him. Dad will come home, Mr. Burnett will be gone and everything will be back to normal….someday. Louder, I tell Mom, "I'm going out to shoot some hoops before dinner."_

_"Harm," she starts, but I've already left the room. On my way out, I stop in the kitchen for some water. Being just feet from the dining room, I can't help but hear Mom and Mr. Burnett's conversation._

_"I'm sorry about that, Frank," Mom says. "Harm could have been nicer."_

_"Trish, it's okay," he says. I turn and glance through the doorway and see him put his hand on her arm. His attention's on Mom and her back is to me, so they can't see me watching them. "It's got to be hard on him. His father's missing and hasn't been declared dead. He probably still hopes his father's going to come walking through the door. He's bound to be suspicious of any man coming here that he doesn't know, worried that one of them is going to try and take his father's place."_

_"I guess," Mom says. I can't see her face from here, but she sounds sad. "But I can't stop living my life just on the long shot that my husband might still be alive. He's been gone for over five years. Does that sound selfish? My child wants me to hold on to the same hope that he is, but I can't. I'm an adult. I know reality doesn't work that way."_

_"It's not selfish," he says, this time taking her hand in his. "It's human. It's like a balancing act, trying to take care of your needs and Harm's. And you've done the best you can. I know that just from listening to you talk about your son. You're a strong woman, Patricia Rabb. Probably the strongest that I've ever met. You've held your life and your son's life together when other women might have fallen apart. That's one of the things that attracted me to you in the first place. I can feel that strength every time I'm in the same room as you."_

_I hear Mom sigh as she leans her head on Mr. Burnett's shoulder, and he puts his arm around her. I want to tell him to get his hands off my mother, but I'm rooted to the spot. I don't want to upset Mom. Her next words are whispered, but I still manage to make them out. "I just wish that I could do more for Harm," she says. "I wish that there was some way that I could make all of this easier for him."_

* * *

5 MAY 2009

MCLEAN, VIRGINIA

Needing to get away from the photo album and all the memories that it holds, I get up and head for the room that we use as an office, hoping to get some work done. I've got to look over Bobbi's notes for the speech she's giving on the Senate floor on the defense budget, which is in danger of being slashed despite the two wars going on, and to look over the depositions that have just come in from San Diego JAG on that F-18 crash a few weeks ago. As usual, my plate is very full between JAG and my work as the Hill's military liaison. Balancing all that hasn't gotten any easier after eight and a half years, and there have been times it has been almost too difficult, but that particular sacrifice has been worth all that it has brought me.

I walk into the office to find Elizabeth sprawled on the floor in front of the desk, quietly looking at a picture book. My wife's behind the desk, flipping through the pages of a case file, her brow furrowed in concentration. My daughter notices me first, her eyes focusing on my tennis shoes. She looks up and up, but I stoop down so that she doesn't have to look so far. "Daddy!" she exclaims with childish glee, forgetting her book and scrambling to her feet, holding her arms out to me. "Up!"

I scoop her up into my arms and momentarily lift her above my head, ignoring the slight ache in my knee as I stand back up, a permanent reminder of that ejection into the Atlantic after my quals back in 2001. Its presence is just another sign that I'm getting older. Sarah drops the pen that she's fiddling onto the desk and gives me a tired smile as she rubs her forehead. "Rough case?" I ask.

She gestures towards the file as she leans back in the chair. "Chief Petty Officer accused of raping three women at Norfolk," she explains. "The General just handed me the case this afternoon."

I'd heard about it – it's been the big news in the area the last few weeks, a serial rapist being on the loose on the base. "I hadn't heard that they'd caught anyone," I say. I'd actually been kind of hoping for a crack at prosecuting the SOB myself when they caught him. Not that I begrudge Sarah the chance to do it. "Prosecution, I assume?"

"Of course," she replies, just a bit of contempt in her voice. "And they just arrested the guy this morning to answer your other question."

I sit down in an armchair in front of a bookcase full of law volumes, trying to settle Elizabeth into my lap. She squirms out of my arms and I set her back down on the floor. She grabs her discarded book from the floor and then returns to me, looking up at me with big brown eyes. Grinning as I shake my head, I lift her back onto my lap. Settling back against my chest, she opens the book and becomes engrossed in the bright pictures again, ignoring us. "Any idea who is handling the defense yet?" I ask, hoping that talk of the case will distract me from…other things that I'd rather not think about just right now.

"It is civilian counsel," she replies, studying me carefully. "I haven't heard a name yet. What's wrong?"

That's my wife, blunt as usual. I try sidestepping the question, even as the little voice inside my mind points out the futility of that. Sarah is a lawyer, after all, one of the best. "Nothing's wrong," I protest, giving her my best flyboy grin, hoping it will distract her. "So do you have a second chair on the case yet?"

Sighing, she closes the case file and stares at me, folding her arms across her chest as she leans back in her chair. "Harm, I know you," she reminds me, as the little voice in my head mocks me, pointing out 'I told you so.' "And I know that look. Something's bothering you."

Shrugging, I give up and begin to explain, "There was a photo album out on the coffee table. You know, one of the ones that Mom and Dad gave me for my fortieth birthday with copies of all those pictures from my childhood. I guess one of the kids had it out and was looking at it. Anyway, some of the pictures were from Christmas 1969."

"And they brought up some painful memories," Sarah says sympathetically. I can almost see the memories replaying in her mind, of our trip to Russia. She knows more than anyone, perhaps even more than my parents, just how much that whole situation still haunts me sometimes. There are just some things that you never get over. You just learn how to incorporate the memories into your everyday existence so that everyone else doesn't see how much still they hurt you.

"Yeah," I reply softly. "I started remembering opening presents with Mom, listening to a letter tape from Dad, then Father McNally showing up to tell us Dad had been shot down. Sarah then showed up and asked about the picture." I pause for a moment, sighing before adding, "She asked me what happened to Grandpa Harmon."

"That's the first time one of them has asked," she realizes after a moment. She stares down at her lap for and I wonder if she's thinking about her own father and trying to explain him to our children. That's one discussion that I'm sure neither of us is ready for. Her next words confirm that. "I guess I should be glad neither of them has thought to ask what happened to my father yet. So what did you tell her?"

"A very brief outline only," I reply. "He was shot down, taken to Russia, escaped in 1980, and then died a few months before Sergei was born. Of course, then she asked what it was like growing up without a daddy, and then she said that it must have been easier for us when Frank came along. Of course, that brought up even more memories – of the first time I met Frank. I was a snotty little kid back then."

She laughs about that, and I can almost see her trying to picture me in her mind as a bratty eleven-year-old. "You were only eleven," she reminds me, "and still hoping that your Dad would come back."

"Yeah," I agree reluctantly. Hindsight really is twenty-twenty. It's so easy to look back at forty-five and see what an ass that I was at eleven. "But I never gave Mom any credit for what she was going through. I told Sarah that it was doubly hard on Mom, having to deal with her own grief as well as mine, and then I remembered something Frank had told Mom that first day. After I'd left the room, Mom apologized to him for my less than welcoming behavior and she wondered out loud if she was being selfish, trying to move on with her life. He told her that it was like a balancing act, trying to take care of her own needs while taking into account mine and that she was probably the strongest woman he knew. I don't know what made me remember that, but he was right. It was just so hard to see it back then."

"Why don't you do something special for your mother?" she suggests. "Mother's Day is this Sunday."

"I know," I reply with a grin. "The kids have enlisted my help on your present." We'll probably make quite the mess in the process, but my children's mother is definitely worth it. So is mine, but I doubt that there's anything that I could possibly do to begin to make up for basically being an inconsiderate ass for over two decades. To distract her from any thoughts of asking for hints on her present, I quickly change the topic back to my mother. "But I don't know what to do for Mom. I couldn't even begin to make up for everything I'd done to her, how inconsiderate I was."

"Harm, it's not about making anything up to her," Sarah insists, leaning forward, her elbows on the desk, her chin resting on top of her clasped hands. "You have to know that she doesn't expect that. She knows you had what you thought were valid reasons for behaving the way you did. It's about telling her how much she means to you. It doesn't have to be anything elaborate. Maybe you can take her to lunch. Or give her some flowers and write her a letter. Remember the first Mother's Day after my mother came back? I just gave her a card and I don't think she stopped crying all day."

"Because it wasn't just a card to her," I say, realization dawning. Maybe simpler is better. It's not like I could buy her anything that she doesn't already have. But maybe I can find something to give her something that comes from the heart. I don't have much time to think about it. Today's Tuesday and Mother's Day is just five days away. I absently stroke Elizabeth's soft blonde hair as I consider the situation. I've got a lot to think about.

* * *


	3. Chapter 3

JANUARY 1981

LA JOLLA, CALIFORNIA

_Mom reads over the letter for the third or fourth time while Frank looks on, concerned. Her eyes are dry, but she's biting her lower lip, as if to keep it from trembling. "Trish, what is it?" Frank asks, covering her hand with his._

_With a shaking hand, she hands him the letter. "Harm's been accepted at Annapolis," she says, her voice shaking._

_Frank's eyes quickly scan the letter, and then he looks across the table at me, smiling. "Congratulations Harm," he says. I ignore him, my gaze focused on Mom._

_After what seems like forever, she looks up at me and takes in a shaky breath. "Yes, congratulations," she says weakly._

_Frank seems happy for me, not that I'm all too concerned about that. I don't want his congratulations. I don't need them. But I do care about what Mom thinks. Why can't she be happy about this? She knew that this is what I wanted, have wanted for nearly my entire life. "Mom?" I ask hesitantly._

_"Harm, not now, please," she says, drawing in another shaky breath. _

_"I just want you to be happy for me," I say quietly, not ready to drop the subject. This is what I've worked towards most of my life. Just about everything that I've ever wanted – with the exception of Dad coming home – is within my reach and my mother is acting like the world's about to end._

_She looks down at her plate, rubbing the bridge of her nose. "It's not that," she counters wearily. "Annapolis is a very good school. You'll receive a fine education. You're very lucky."_

_"I've got some work to do for a morning meeting," Frank says suddenly, pushing his plate back and standing. He leans over and whispers something to Mom, but I can't hear what he says. With a quick kiss on the forehead to Mom and a nod and a smile to me, he leaves us alone in the dining room._

_Mom pushes her food around on her plate for a few moments before I get tired of the silence and try to bring up the subject of the Academy again. "Mom, this is the greatest thing," I argue. She sets down her fork and looks at me. I can see in her eyes that she really doesn't want to hear any of this, but I persist. "You know that I've always wanted to follow Dad to the Academy and I did it. I got accepted to the United States Naval Academy. Do you know how many guys would do anything for a chance like that, how many people apply but don't get accepted?"_

_"I know," she says dully, standing up and beginning to clear the table. "It's a great school."_

_I pick up my own plate and follow her into the kitchen. "And I'm going to be a pilot just like Dad and then maybe the Navy will let me find him..." I continue, only to be cut off by Mom._

_"It's been eleven years, darling," she says, a slight edge to her voice. We've had this argument many times, especially in the last few years, as I've gotten older and Frank's become more entrenched in our lives. It became quite the blow up between us right after my return from the Far East. I can't understand why I'm the only one who still believes that Dad's coming home someday. He's her husband, right? Even Gram has welcomed Frank into our lives. I can't believe that the people who supposedly loved Dad the most would betray him like that._

_"And he's still out there somewhere," I insist, dropping my plate into the sink, not hard enough to break it, but with just enough force that it makes a loud bang. I storm out of the kitchen, barely taking note of the tears forming in her eyes._

_I'm just past the open door of Frank's office when I hear his voice calling me. I hesitate. Maybe I can just pretend that I didn't hear him. But something compels me to answer the summons. If nothing else, Frank did manage to get Mom to ease up on me eventually after my trip. It is funny that he was the only one who even remotely acted like he was on my side. I have to admit – very reluctantly - that he would have the most to lose with Dad still being alive, yet he's the only one who's supported me._

_Frank is sitting behind his desk, papers spread out in front of him. He looks up and nods towards a chair in front of the desk. "Why don't you take a seat?" he suggests._

_With a long-suffering sigh, I throw myself down into the chair. "I think it's great that you've gotten into Annapolis," he begins, and I resist the urge to roll my eyes at his praise. "And deep down, your mother is proud, too. We could hardly ask for a better college for you and you've done an excellent job getting back on track with your life after your little adventure last year. The discipline and order that the Navy will provide is probably just what you need in your life right now."_

_"And the point of all this?" I ask, lifting my eyebrows at him, not really trying to hide the derision in my voice._

_"Try to be a little easier on your mother, Harm," he says patiently, ignoring my tone. He's good at that. I can't remember ever hearing him raise his voice to me in the six years that he's been a part of our lives. No matter how hard I push, he just takes it. More often than not, it drives me crazy. No one can be that calm. But to all outward appearances, Frank is. There are times when I wish that he would just push back, so I could feel justified in letting loose against him as I've always wanted to do. "She is happy for you, but that's not easy for her to show. She's…it was hard for her, getting past your father's…what happened to your father. She can't help being a little scared for you, with you following in his footsteps to the Academy and into the Navy."_

_"But I'm going to be an excellent pilot," I protest, "just like Dad was." Even as I say the words, the little voice inside my head reminds me that even as good a pilot as Dad was, it still didn't save him from being shot down, just as it didn't save my grandfather nearly thirty years before that._

_"And hopefully we'll all be lucky and you'll never have to experience what your father did," he says. He studies me for a moment before adding, "You're all that Trish has left of him. It would kill her if anything happened to you, too."_

* * *

7 MAY 2009

MCLEAN, VIRGINIA

I sit at the desk in our home office, a nearly blank sheet of paper lying in front of me. I decided to take Sarah's suggestion of a letter to Mom, but I haven't yet managed to get past the 'Dear Mom,' yet. What do I say?

_Well, Mom, sorry that I was such an ass for so many years. Love, Harm._

Well, that about sums it up, but I don't think that's quite what she'd be looking for in a Mother's Day gift, although it might be good for a laugh or two. Dad would certainly get a kick out of it – and for good reason. Maybe I'll keep that in mind for his gift for Father's Day. What do you get your rich father who has everything? A hand-written and heartfelt apology.

I drop the pen on the desk with a sigh. This is harder than I thought it was going to be. I'm a lawyer. I should be able to put a few words coherently down on paper to tell Mom how I feel about her. Right. I'm still the same guy who managed to screw up one of the most important conversations that I ever had with my wife and it nearly cost us everything that we are to each other. Is it any surprise that I can't figure out what to say to my mother?

I pick up the pen again, but all I manage to do this time is to write today's date in the upper right corner of the page. I'm about to throw the pen down in disgust again when my head jerks up at the sound of a sharp cry from the living room. It sounds like Elizabeth and I rush out of the office, visions running through my head of my little girl having fallen against something and gotten hurt. But as soon as I see the scene in the living room, I know that isn't the case, not that what I'm seeing is any better.

Elizabeth is sitting on the floor next to the coffee table, tears rolling down her cheeks while her sister stands in front of the couch, arms defiantly crossed over her chest, glaring down at her brother, who is seated on the couch. None of them notice my presence.

"She's ruining everything," Matt shouts. Elizabeth cries louder at the noise, and I bend down and scoop her up. She buries her face against my shirt as she takes big gulping breaths. Matt and Sarah both stare at me cautiously, wondering what I'm going to do. They then both begin talking at once, each trying to out-talk the other as they try to explain.

"Enough," I say firmly, just loud enough that they know I'm serious, but not too loud that the sound of my voice scares Elizabeth. She's very sensitive to others' emotions, especially when people are being negative. Both Uncle Matt and Deanne have said that Elizabeth reminds them of her mother when she was very little, before she started seeking other ways besides tears to escape all the negativity around her. I cringe every time one of them says something like that, and I swear to myself that my daughter will never have cause to seek that kind of escape. None of my children will. "One at a time, Sarah first. Why is your sister crying?"

Sarah takes on a more relaxed posture now that she's not staring down her brother, and explains, "Matt and I were working on part of the present for Mommy and Elizabeth wanted to help. She got her fingers in the paint and Matt pushed her aside, saying that she was going to ruin everything." Her voice rises at the end and she turns back to her brother with a glare.

"Well, she was!" Matt protests, but he quiets at a stern look from me.

"You'll get your turn in a minute, Matthew," I tell him firmly. "What was the paint for, Sarah?"

She turns back to me and continues, "Well, you know that frame that we were going to put all those pictures in for Mommy? Matt and I were going to paint our names on the mat and Elizabeth wanted to, too." I nod. I'd helped them buy the frame last week. They'd gotten the idea from a collage that Deanne has hanging in her living room with pictures of the three of them.

"I don't see why Elizabeth can't help," I point out. "Mommy is her mommy, too."

"She's just making a mess of everything," Matt argues. "She's just a baby."

"No baby," Elizabeth protests, her voice muffled by my shirt. I pat her on the back soothingly.

"Matt, did you push your sister?" I ask.

"But…" he begins, but I cut him off.

"Harmon Matthew, did you push Elizabeth?" I repeat, my voice sterner. He glares for a moment, and then turns away. He knows that when his mother or I use his full name that he's about half a step from being in huge trouble, the type of trouble that could lead to being grounded.

He's silent for a long moment. I already know the answer, but I want to hear him say it. "Yeah," he finally admits quietly.

"Why?"

"Because she was going to ruin Mommy's gift and she wouldn't go away," he retorts, turning back to me with a mutinous look in his eyes. If Elizabeth displays quite a bit of her mother's childhood personality, Matt shows more of mine than I feel comfortable admitting. Maybe I could give Mom a medal for Mother's Day for putting up with it for so long.

"Did it ever occur to you to help your sister so that she wouldn't make a mess?" I counter. "She's not really old enough yet to understand the difference between helping and making a mess. As her big brother, you should help her learn that and pushing her is not the way to do that." I glance at the picture mat, laid out on the coffee table. "It doesn't look like she did any damage to the mat."

"That's because I stopped her before..." Matt begins.

"As far as your pushing your sister goes," I interrupt, "I will discuss what happened with Mommy when she gets home, and we'll let you know tonight what your punishment will be. For now, I think you kids need a little supervision in working on Mommy's present. I'm going to get your sister cleaned up, and then I will help *all* three of you work on the collage."

"Um, Daddy?" Sarah says, barely suppressing a giggle. "You, um, might want to change your shirt, as well."

I look down, remembering that Sarah said Elizabeth had gotten her fingers into the paint. Grabbing a hold of my shirt as she sobbed against my chest, she's left blue and red splotches on the front of it. Oh, well, at least it's not my uniform. After eight years, I still have not lived down the time Matt smeared strained peas all over my summer whites.

"See, she ruined your shirt," Matt points out triumphantly.

"I'll wash it," I counter patiently. I'd never really considered patience one of my more outstanding character virtues until I had children. "If it doesn't wash out, then I can just buy a new shirt. I hate to break this to you, Matt, but you made your share of messes when you were little. She'll grow out of it, just as you eventually did. Now, as I was saying, I'll get Elizabeth cleaned up, I'll change clothes, and then we'll work on the collage. Sarah, sit in the chair. Matt, you stay where you are. I want you both to stay there, and I do not want to hear another word out of either of you until I get back."

Sometimes, I have to wonder how Mom did it. This is just ordinary, run of the mill, childhood stuff. Mom had that to deal with plus everything else that I made her put up with from me. Maybe it's a good thing that I was an only child until I was an adult. If she'd had to deal with more than one of me, it might have driven her crazy. I used to wonder if I was the reason Mom and Frank never had any kids together. Mom was certainly still young enough to have more when they'd gotten married. If I'd been them, I wouldn't want to deal with another me either, but now that I'm older and having Sergei around has led me to realize what I had missed, I really wish that they would have had a child or two.

Elizabeth and I return to the living room about fifteen minutes later. Matt and Sarah are where I told them to stay, silently glaring at each other from across the room. With me watching over them, we manage to get all three of their names painted on the mat along with the message 'Happy Mother's Day, 2009' and then we turn our attention to selecting pictures for the collage while the paint dries. Matt starts out acting sullen, but he gradually warms as we go through the pictures and I share some of my memories of when they were taken.

We've got room for twelve pictures, but we've only narrowed it down to about twenty-five. Since it's for Mother's Day, I suggest keeping two specific pictures – one of Sarah during each of her pregnancies. The one when she was expecting the twins was taken on Christmas morning. The two of us are sitting in front of the Christmas tree, still in our pajamas and robes, her back against my chest, my hands covering hers on her belly. She's looking up at me with this bright light in her eyes and as I recall, we had just felt one of the babies moving around at the time the picture was taken. The other was taken around Mother's Day 2006, five weeks before Elizabeth's birth. Sarah's lying on the living room floor with Matt and Sarah lying on either side of her, their heads resting on her stomach.

Each of the kids selects a picture of their mother with each of them by themselves. Matt selects one of him sitting in his mother's lap behind her desk at JAG, taken when he was six. It was one of those 'take your kids to work' days, the kind that used to drive Admiral Chegwidden – or AJ, as he tries to insist that everyone call him since he finally retired a few years ago – crazy because of the number of children among the JAG staff, even if his own younger daughter was one of the children. Sarah selects one of her mother fixing her hair before Sergei and Lisa's wedding in February 2007, when she was the flower girl. I suggest Elizabeth's picture to her, which she declares 'priddy'. I took this picture of the two of them on Gram's farm. It was just after Elizabeth's first birthday and the two of them were walking through the field behind the house, Sarah holding on to our daughter's hand while helping her to pick some flowers.

As the kids debate about what other pictures to include, I flip through one of the albums, stopping at pictures taken the day of the twins' baptisms. One particular picture catches my eye and I stare at it, nearly forgetting everything going on around me until I hear Matt ask, "Whatcha looking at, Daddy?"

I turn the album around so the kids can see the picture. This one was taken by the professional photographer we had hired that day, this one of me holding the twins while seated, Mom standing behind me, looking over my shoulder. There's a similar one on the next page of Sarah holding the twins with Deanne behind her. "Are you doing something for your mommy for Mother's Day?" Sarah asks.

"I'm trying to," I reply, remembering the letter still sitting unfinished on the desk. "It's not that easy."

"What about Mommy? Is she doing something for her mommy?" she continues.

"Probably," I reply. We haven't really talked about it. I guess I've been kind of focused on figuring out what to do for Mom. That's me and my one-track mind. That much has not changed after all these years.

"What about pictures?" This comes from Matt. "Like we're doing, but of Grandma Trish being your mommy."

"Hmmm, maybe," I reply, giving some serious thought to the idea. If I can't tell her, maybe I can show her, through pictures.

Idly, I flip to another page and study one of the photos. Some of my memories after my crash in 2001 were a little vague in the weeks afterwards, but I remember this photo. The entire time I was in the hospital, it was the first thing I saw when I opened my eyes in the morning and the last I saw when I closed them at night. It was actually taken just days before my crash, at a JAG picnic. Sarah's sitting on a blanket with the twins in her lap and she's pointing and laughing, trying to get them to look at me behind the camera. Memories of them got me through those cold hours in the Atlantic, reminding me how much I had to live for, how I couldn't let another generation of Rabb children grow up fatherless.

It took another year and a dirty nuke before I decided once and for all that my wings weren't worth it. Although I keep up my qualifications for land-based operations, and still fly CAP flights whenever they need me to, I finally made the difficult decision to give up qualifying for carrier-based ops. I'd tried to convince everyone that it didn't matter, that F-14s were being phased out of the fleet anyway, but I don't think I convinced anyone that it was really that easy to give it up. It wasn't easy, I finally did admit to my wife, but I'd finally figured out that flying wasn't more important than everything.

I turn a few more pages and there's a photo of me in my dress whites, receiving my Silver Star for my actions with that dirty nuke. The one just below it is of Mom, tears in her eyes as she'd waited to greet me after the ceremony. The sight of her in tears brings forth yet another memory…

* * *


	4. Chapter 4

MAY 1985

UNITED STATES NAVAL ACADEMY

ANNAPOLIS, MARYLAND

_As I walk towards Mom, Frank and Gram, ensign's bars newly attached to my shoulders, Mom suddenly clasps her hand over her mouth and turns away. Puzzled, I quickly cover the last few steps to them. "Mom?"_

_Frank puts a hand on my arm and tries to pull me aside. I resist for a moment, but finally I allow him to lead me a few feet away while Gram tries to talk to Mom. Maybe he can tell me what's going on._

"_Frank?"_

"_I'm sorry, Harm," he says. "You know your mother's very proud of you, but..."_

"_But what?" I ask, a bit impatiently._

"_Just give her a moment," he says, smiling sadly. "I don't think you realize just how much you look like your father, standing here in that uniform. We've both always known how much you look like him, but I think it's really hitting home for your mother right now. Please be patient with her."_

_I want to ask how he knows that, but I bit my tongue. He's seen the photos, I'm sure. Frank has always encouraged her to talk about Dad, to share that part of her life with him. I've always thought that it was an effort to win my affections, but now I'm not so sure, not after all these years they've been together, almost half my life now._

_He's probably right, as much as I hate to admit it. My mom is probably feeling like she's looking at a ghost right now. I'm the same age that Dad was when he graduated from the Academy and the two of them got married. Is she seeing me or is she seeing the newly minted Ensign who won her heart over twenty years ago? For just a moment, I'm glad if she is seeing him, because it means that Dad still holds a large place in her heart. Another moment passes, and I remind myself that my mother is hurting and I hurt, too._

_After a few minutes, she turns back to us, brushing away tears with her fingers as Gram pats her shoulder. "I'm sorry, Harm," she says softly, her voice trembling. "It's just…"_

"_I know, Mom," I reply. I look down, unsure what else to say to her._

_Her fingers trembling, she holds out a hand to me. I clasp it for a brief moment, reflecting how frail she seems right now. I gently pull her towards me, wrapping my arms around her and holding her tight. "Please, don't cry, Mom," I whisper. _

_She pulls back in my arms after a long moment, biting her lower lip. "I just didn't expect how much…you do look so much like your father, you know."_

_I nod, unable to say anything in reply. Frank was right, and after all these years, I'm just beginning to admit to myself how often he is._

* * *

7 MAY 2009

MCLEAN, VIRGINIA

Before we'd finished selecting all the pictures for the collage – we've narrowed it down to seventeen now – Sarah came home from her deposition, so we hid everything in the basement for now. While I fixed dinner, I tried to mentally compose the letter to Mom in my mind, but still nothing came to me. There's so much to say, too much to condense down into a few sentences and paragraphs. I ended up moody and distracted throughout dinner and the rest of the evening, with my patient wife urging the kids to leave me alone for a while. As we're getting ready for bed, Sarah finally calls me on it.

"Do you want to talk about it?" she asks, motioning me to sit on the edge of the bed as I come out of the bathroom in my boxers. Not really, I sigh mentally, but I don't want to say that to her. She's put up with so much from me over the years, in some ways as much have my parents have, and she deserves better than that.

"How do I condense everything over the last forty-five years into a few paragraphs?" I ask idly as she settles behind me on the bed, her hands beginning to knead my shoulders. It feels so good and I realize that this conversation is not going to last very long as I start reacting to her touch. After nine years, this aspect of our relationship is still just as good as it was on the first day that we finally admitted our feelings. Sometimes, especially during those problems we had in the months before Elizabeth was conceived, it has been almost too easy to not talk things out, distracting each other with sex, but we learned the hard way that doesn't resolve anything.

With that in mind, I sigh reluctantly. "Maybe you should stop doing that," I say. I try to adopt a teasing tone. "I am just a man, after all."

Sarah does stop, but doesn't move away, wrapping her arms around me and pressing herself against my back. "You don't have to talk about," she says, seemingly knowing what I'm thinking. "I promise not to hold it against you. Anyway, your problem isn't with me, so the usual doesn't apply." She's silent for a long moment, and I relish the peace that her simple embrace brings.

"Maybe I'm just over thinking this," I say with a sigh after another moment. "And it's not like Mother's Day doesn't come around every year. But this year, someone just happens to leave out a photo album and I can't stop thinking about everything that's happened between me and Mom over the years."

"I think this has all brought to the front of your mind the realization that there is a lot that hasn't been hashed out with your mother," she says. "Do you remember what you told me when you came back from telling your parents what we found out in Russia the first time?"

She would have to bring that up. I'd accompanied her home after the debacle at the Sudanese embassy, and she'd gotten me to open up about my trip to California the week before. Although I'd had enough sense not to say it to my mother, the six-year-old in the back of my mind couldn't help thinking 'I told you so', because I'd been right about my father still being alive after he was shot down.

"Unfortunately," I reply. "But I'm not sure why you're bringing it up. I had enough common sense not to say that to my mother."

"Only to make a point," she says with a light laugh. "Even though you didn't express the thought, except to me, you had a very childish response to the situation."

"Great, you're calling me a child," I mutter.

"No, that's not what I said," she counters, laughing a little more. "But maybe you had more growing up to do before you could begin to put everything between you and your mother in perspective."

"You mean the kind of perspective being a parent brings?" I ask, remembering Matt's attitude earlier.

"What's that old joke, about parents hoping their children grow up and have children who are just like they were?" she teases.

"Bite your tongue," I retort, turning in her arms so that I can see her face. "I wouldn't wish me as a child – at least past the age of six - on anyone, especially us."

"Of course not," she says, "and Matt's not you…mostly. He hasn't had the same experiences that you had." She shivers slightly, and I wonder if she's thinking about that rainy May night as I was earlier. "No more than Elizabeth is me."

"Of course not," I reply, more sharply than intended. Sarah would never treat our daughter, or any of our children, the way that she was treated as a child. That particular cycle has been broken.

Pulling her arms from around my neck, she takes my hands in hers, squeezing gently. "Anyway, we're getting a little off track here," she says. "The point is, now that you've been a parent for a while, you're acknowledging everything that you put your mother through and you feel that you have to make that up to her somehow."

I look down at our clasped hands, nodding. "But," she continues, and I look back up at her, "I think that your mother doesn't feel that you have to make anything up to her."

"What makes you say that?" I ask, puzzled.

"Mostly because she's your mother and she loves you, regardless," she says. "That's enough to forgive even the worst sins. There's nothing that you have to do in order to earn that forgiveness from her. It's just there, especially since it turns out that you were right. Your father was still alive out there. I imagine that there's a part of her that found it easy to let it go because you turned out to be right."

That sounds pretty insightful…almost too much so. "Has she…?"

"No, not in so many words," she says, shrugging. "Honestly, I gathered most of this based on something she once said to me about my own mother after the twins were born." She looks away for a moment before continuing, "You know that it took me a long time to forgive my mother and I didn't always think before I said…things to her. I wondered one day to your mom why my mom kept trying, even after some of the things I said to her."

I wasn't there for this conversation with Mom that she is describing, but I think I know what had precipitated it. Deanne had made a comment, after dinner one night at our house when the twins were about two weeks old, about how wonderful a mother Sarah was, how attentive she was to the twins. Sarah had snapped at her, saying that she only had to look at her mother's example and do the opposite.

"She said that my mom forgave me for what I said because she loved me and really wanted a chance with me," she explains, "and that Mom probably thought that I was justified in feeling the way I was. Of course, I'm not absolutely sure, but the way she said it, I got the impression that she wasn't just thinking about my mom and me."

I pull one of my hands from hers and tuck a stray lock of hair back behind her ear. She sighs a little as my fingers brush against her skin just behind her ear, always a sensitive place for her. "So tell me how you got so smart?" I tease as my fingers continue downwards before sliding across her collar to slip beneath the strap of her nightgown.

"Mmmm," she murmurs as I lean down, pressing a kiss to her shoulder as I tug the strap down her arm. "I think…after almost thirteen years that I'm near an expert on all that is Harmon…Rabb…Jr." She lies back on the bed, pulling me with her, and there's no more talking.

* * *


	5. Chapter 5

JANUARY 1991

LANDSTUHL REGIONAL MEDICAL CENTER

LANDSTUHL, GERMANY

_Through the haze that envelops my mind, I think I hear someone crying. Why would there be someone crying? You're not going to find a sailor breaking down in the middle of a carrier in the Arabian Sea, not with a possible war hanging over our heads. There's too much to do, too much to focus on. What the…?_

_I try to move and with the blinding pain that spreads throughout my entire body comes the memory of what happened. The stormy skies. The tilting carrier deck. Mace's panicked shout as the deck rose up to met us. The searing heat as our Tomcat exploded in a ball of flames. _

_I try to push aside the pain, fighting towards awareness. There isn't a part of me that doesn't hurt and the agony surrounds me, clouding my mind. After a few moments, my mind clears a little – I find it hurts less if I don't try to move – and I hear something else…voices. It takes longer before I recognize the voices and can grasp what they're saying._

"_He's alive," a male voice says. Frank. If he's here, then so is Mom, and likely Gram as well. Finding comfort and safety in this recognition, I try to focus on what's being said. "That's all that matters right now. We can worry about the rest later."_

"_Frank's right," another voice says, one that brings to mind breezy meadows and the smell of hay in the barn. Gram. "Let's just thank God…"_

"_Thank God for what?" another voice demands, the same one that I'd heard crying earlier. "That my son so much wanted to be like his father that he nearly followed him into an early grave? Is that what I'm supposed to be thankful for?"_

_Mom. I move my arm, trying to reach out to her, to assure her that I'm here and that I'm not going anywhere. I want to scream as the throbbing intensifies, blinding me to all else, but I can't. It just hurts too much to do anything but groan._

"_Trish." That's Frank's voice again, cutting through the agony of my thoughts. "We can…"_

_I start to panic, wondering why I don't hear him anymore, but then I feel it, the warmth of skin on skin, fingers curling around mine. I fight through the pain to tighten my fingers, trying to reassure whoever it is that I'm here. _

"_Trish, Sarah," Frank says insistently, his voice closer. I hear him breathing as he leans over me. "I think he's waking up. Trish, come here." _

_After a moment, I feel other fingers, slender and feminine, clasping mine. I realize that it was Frank's touch I felt first and that he's placed my hand in Mom's. It's a struggle, but I manage to tighten my fingers around hers to reassure her. I feel another touch, this time on my other hand, this one Gram's. I squeeze there to, receiving a gentle squeeze in response._

"_Oh, darling," Mom cries. "Mom's here, baby. Just open your eyes. Please, Harm. Let us see those beautiful eyes of yours."_

_I try to do as she asks, but my eye lids are too heavy, won't respond to my mental command. I squeeze again, trying to let her know in my touch that I'm trying._

"_I know, baby," Mom says. "I know it hurts…Frank, press the call button. Get the damned doctor in here…It's okay, darling. I'm right here, and I'm not going anywhere until you open your eyes, no matter how long it takes."_

_I hear footsteps, and then Frank says, "Doctor Ellison, we think Harm's waking up. I think I heard him groan and when I held his hand, he squeezed it."_

"_Harm," Gram says, "open your eyes before this doctor decides to launch into a lecture about involuntary movements in unconscious patients."_

_If I could, I'd laugh. That sounds like Gram, half order and half joke. I fight again and this time I manage to open my eyes enough for the light above to blind me. I quickly close them again._

"_Sorry about that, Lieutenant," an unfamiliar voice says. It must be the doctor. "I've dimmed the lights in the room."_

_I open my eyes again, finding it easier than before. I struggle to focus for a moment before Mom's face swims into view, her eyes red and swollen. "Mom," I whisper, my mouth dry. "Sorry…"_

"_Shhh," she says and I feel her hand on my forehead, her fingers running through my hair like she used to do when I would get sick as a child. It feels so comfortable, so familiar. "It's okay now. Everything's okay now."_

_But I can hear it in her voice, heard it in her words before they all realized that I was waking up. It's not okay, and I don't know if it will be ever again._

_

* * *

_

8 MAY 2009

JAG HEADQUARTERS

MCLEAN, VIRGINIA

I stare at the phone, as if it can make the call that I've been putting off for the last few days for me. Talking to Sarah last night helped clarify some of the things I've been feeling, but it hasn't put me any closer to figuring out what to do for Mom on Sunday. My attempt at writing her a letter sits on my desk at home, still blank but for the salutation and yesterday's date at the top. And Sarah's idea of taking Mom to lunch somehow seems inadequate as it's nothing we haven't done before.

I'm startled out of my reverie by an insistent voice calling my name. I look up to find Jen standing in the open doorway, one hand braced against the frame, folders cradled in her other arm. "Captain Rabb?"

I shake my head as if to clear it, forcing myself to focus on work. I nod towards the files in her hands. "Is that the discovery I requested on the Kennison case?" I ask.

"Yes, sir," she says, stepping into the office and handing me the files. "Will there be anything else, sir?"

"How about an idea of what to do for my mother for Mother's Day?" I joke.

"Sorry, sir," she says with a laugh, shaking her head. "Can't help you there."

"No one can," I say with a sigh. "That's the problem." Time to stop thinking about this and get back to work. "That will be all, Petty Officer."

As I open the top folder Jen just handed me, I start counting in my head. I've reached forty-nine when there's a knock on the open door. "I suppose Jen stopped by your office?" I ask as Sarah enters and settles into one of the chairs in front of my desk.

"She said you were distracted and hadn't even noticed that she was standing there," she replies. "Good thing that it was her and not the General. I thought the talk that we had last night had clarified some things for you?"

"Clarified my feelings about everything Mom and I have been through," I counter, "but that doesn't help me figure out what to do for her Sunday."

"Harm, it's Mother's Day," Sarah says. "It doesn't require the tactical planning of D-Day. You're trying to make something simple too complicated."

"It's one of my many talents," I joke with a grin.

"So I've noticed," she retorts. "Anyway, just call and invite her out to lunch, or even better, go over to your parents and make lunch for her. I'm sure she'd love something homemade, especially if you make it for her."

I ponder that for a minute. "Only if you and the kids come with me," I say. "Mother's Day is for grandmothers and grandchildren, too."

"That will work," she agrees. "I've invited my mother over for dinner Sunday night, and a little birdie told me that my Mother's Day gift involves something about 'brefast', so the kids and I would appear to be free for lunch."

"Elizabeth," I say with a knowing grin. One of the twins must have said something in front of her and she repeated it, like a parrot, to her mother. That was the reason why I limited what I say about Mother's Day around her. She's not old enough yet to know how to keep a secret. I'm surprised that she hasn't let slip about the collage yet, which I'd managed to avoid talking about when telling Sarah about the incident between Matt and Elizabeth, describing the reasons behind the fight in the most general terms only. If Elizabeth does spill the beans, I'm sure that Sarah will still act surprised, just as I know she will about breakfast. She's not about to spoil the day for our children.

"So that you're not obsessing over it the rest of the day," she says, "give your mom a call and set it up."

"Yes, ma'am," I tease. She gives me a saucy smile in reply before returning to her own office. My eyes follow her, marveling as I have more times than I can count at the wonder that is my wife.

Once she's out of sight, my thoughts return to my dilemma. After considering for another moment, I finally pick up the phone. I don't dial my parents' home number, but different one. After two rings, the phone is answered. "Hello?"

"Dad," I say, "how are you doing today?"

"I'm doing great, Harm," he replies, "just doing some work around the house." I can't help smiling at that. Dad's as much of a handyman as I am, especially since he retired and they moved out here. If he's not puttering around his own house, expanding or renovating something, then he can often be found at Sergei's these days, helping put together the nursery for the baby that Lisa's expecting. "Speaking of which, why didn't you just call me on the land line?"

He would pick up on that. I have picked up the habit of always trying my parents at home first when they're not traveling, before calling their cell phones. Dad knows me too well after thirty-four years. "I didn't want to call in case Mom answered the phone. I need your help with something, and I don't want her to know about it just yet."

"What can I do?" he asks.

"I've been trying to think of something to do for Mom for Mother's Day," I try to explain, "something special. I'm still not sure about that part, but Sarah suggested that we get together for lunch." I stop, something else occurring to me. "She doesn't already have plans for lunch with Sergei and Lisa, does she?"

"No," Dad assures me. "We're going over there for dinner. Later in the day is better for Lisa these days."

Sarah's pregnancies had been blessedly problem free, with the exception of the shooting during her first pregnancy and even that wasn't as bad as it could have been, so it had never really occurred to me how difficult pregnancy could be until my sister-in-law became pregnant. A family history of diabetes on her side has led to Lisa developing gestational diabetes and a very difficult pregnancy, including morning sickness which still persists into her seventh month.

"Sarah just gave me a wonderful idea," I say, quickly outlining her suggestion of a home cooked meal, "but I need time to prepare it. Can you get Mom out of the house for a few hours late Sunday morning, say around 1000 hours?"

"I don't think that will be a problem," he replies. "I'm sure she wouldn't mind hitting a few stores to shop for the baby and maybe we can get a head start on Elizabeth's birthday next month."

"Now, Dad…" I start in a half teasing, half warning tone. She may not be related to my parents by blood, but the future Tatiana Rabb is destined by be spoiled by them as much as my kids are. And I don't even want to think about what they have in mind for Elizabeth's birthday, considering their overabundance of gifts to the twins back in February.

"It's our job as grandparents," he jokes, laughing. "Just read the job description."

"Is there something in there about leaving the parents to deal with the aftermath?" I retort, tongue in cheek. After everything that we've all been through, I've come to the realization that I wouldn't trade my family for anything. Being able to laugh and joke with Dad like this just reminds me why.

"Anything else I can do for you?" he asks.

"Not right now," I answer. "I haven't planned out the menu yet, so I'm not sure what time lunch will be served yet. I'll have to get back to you on how long you need to keep her away."

"That's fine," Dad says. "Just let me know. Or we could arrange a signal, like a text message, when you're ready for us, just in case something unforeseen happens."

"Hopefully, it won't," I say. For that, I'll have to figure out how to keep the kids from trying to help too much. I hope they will get it out of their systems early when we destroy the kitchen in our home while making Sarah her Mother's Day breakfast. "Thanks, Dad. I'll see you Sunday."

* * *


	6. Chapter 6

OCTOBER 1998

LA JOLLA, CALIFORNIA

_I stand on the porch for several minutes, trying to compose my thoughts before I have to face the conversation that's coming. It's going to be one of the most difficult that I've ever had, and that's probably saying a lot considering everything that I've been through in my life._

_Taking a deep breath, I finally ring the doorbell, hearing the chimes echo behind the closed door. It's a couple of minutes before the door opens. "Harm, thank God," Frank says. He hesitates a moment before pulling me into his arms. In the past, I would have pulled away, but today I welcome it. None of this would have been possible without him and I owe him for that, a debt on top of all the others that I now realize that I've owed him for so long._

_After a moment, he steps back, tilting his head up to look me in the eye. "I don't have to tell you how scared your mother has been," he says._

"_I know," I say. On the flight back to Washington, Admiral Chegwidden had told us the story of how he'd ended up in Russia, how our deaths had been reported on ZNN. No names had been mentioned, but those who know us knew who they were talking about. He'd also told me about an anguished phone call he'd received from Mom just before he'd left for Russia, berating him for letting me go on that "fool's errand". I'd called from Moscow to let Mom and Frank know that I am okay, but there are things I left unsaid, things that I have to tell them face to face. "I'm sorry that I scared both of you." _

_Frank smiles at that last statement, accepting the acknowledgment, a long time coming, of his place in my life, my overdue consideration for his feelings. He steps aside and motions me in. "Your mother's out back," he says._

"_How is she?" I ask._

_Frank sighs heavily as we slowly walk through the house. "She's coping," he replies. "Or she's trying to. It was very hard on her, seeing that report. In a way, it was harder than back in '91. There may have been no men in blue uniforms at the door, but hearing it on the news gave it a kind of finality, even without names being mentioned. Then hearing from you…I think with everything you've been through, she's wondering in the back of her mind if the day is going to come when it really is final."_

"_I'm sorry," I say simply, unsure what else to say._

"_I know you are," he says, pausing at the doors leading to the patio. He studies me for a long moment. "You found what you were looking for?"_

_I nod sadly. "That's what I came to talk to both of you about," I say._

"_Then it will be okay," he says. "I know it may not have always seemed that way to you, but all your mother has every wanted – all either of us has ever wanted - is for you to find some peace." _

"_Thanks, Frank," I say sincerely._

_He opens the patio door, leading me out into the back yard. Mom is on her knees in the grass, weeding one of the flower beds. She usually has a gardener come in and take care of things while she's busy with the gallery, but when she needs to distract herself, she takes to the garden with a vengeance. _

"_Mom?"_

_She freezes, her back still to me. It seems like an eternity before she finally turns around, lifting her eyes to meet mine. "Hello, Harm," she says, her voice trembling._

_I quickly cover the distance between us, holding my hand out to her. She hesitates a moment before taking it, allowing me to pull her up. "Mom, I'm…" I begin before she shakes her head, silencing me._

"_Was it worth it?" she asks._

"_Yes," I reply quietly. "I now know what happened to Dad."_

_Turning away, she makes a show of pulling off her gardening gloves, laying them down on the ground next to the flower bed. She turns back to me, her eyes moist. I reach out and brush a falling tear from the corner of her eye as she offers me a trembling smile. "Then I'm happy for you," she says. "I'm glad that you've finally found what you've been looking for."_

_

* * *

_

9 MAY 2009

MCLEAN, VIRGINIA

"Harm, this isn't D-Day," Sarah reminds me again, coming up behind me and placing her hands on my shoulders as I sit at the dining room table, pondering my half-completed menu for tomorrow. I'm now down to less than twenty-four hours to make this everything that I want it to be.

"I know, I know," I protest with a grin. "I'm over thinking this. You've told me that already. I just want everything to be perfect."

"What's important is that it's coming from your heart," she insists, settling into my lap and wrapping her arms around my neck. "That will make it perfect for your mom."

"Yeah," I say unconvinced, rolling my pen around on the table.

"I'm still not convincing you, am I?"

"I get what you're saying," I say, "at least intellectually I do. She's my mother and she loves me, warts and obsessions and all. She doesn't expect some grand production."

"When you were a kid, did you ever try to do something special for your mother and make kind of a mess doing it?" she asks.

"You mean," I whisper, glancing around to make sure there are no miniature eavesdroppers hanging around, "like making her breakfast in bed?"

"Something like that," she confirms, her eyes alight with laughter.

"Not just me," I reply, smiling at the memory. "Dad and me. It was a few months before Dad left….on his final cruise. It was Mom's birthday and we'd decided to surprise her with breakfast in bed." I laugh, shaking my head.

"What's so funny?" Sarah asks.

"Let's just say that I didn't get my ability to cook from him," I reply. "I think the coffee that he made was probably the best part of the meal for her. At least, I don't remember her grimacing when she drank it. I burnt the toast because I was playing with the knob on the toaster; Dad overcooked the eggs and burnt the bacon."

"I imagine that she still ate every single bite," she suggests. I nod. "It was good because it came from you. The taste really had nothing to do with it, and I'm sure that she didn't care how simple it was."

"I know, I know," I say, holding my hands up in protest. "I'll try not to obsess so much over it, okay?"

She laughs heartily, her body shaking with mirth. "Might as well ask for the moon and the stars," she teases, burying her face in my neck.

"Hey," I protest, "I've gotten a lot better over the last few years. I don't obsess about *everything*."

"No, not everything," she agrees, still laughing. "Just every other…Harm!"

Taking advantage of her eyes being hidden, I let one hand slip under her t-shirt and start tickling her mercilessly. She struggles in my arms, attempting to pull away, but I tighten my hold on her with my other hand, pressing her against me. As her body moves against mine, my body can't help but react to the closeness of hers.

She's quick to realize and to take advantage. One of her hands slides down my chest and lower as she lifts her head, pressing kisses along my jaw line.

"Sarah," I groan, my hand stilling on her waist before sliding down over her hip, pulling her even closer. Even as I do, I know this has to stop. We're sitting in our dining room, our young children around here somewhere.

"I know," she acknowledges the unspoken message even as one of her hands tangles in my hair and her lips find mine. I could never get tired of these feelings that only she can elicit in me. I groan deep in my throat as my free hand slips between us, sliding up under her shirt.

"Oh, yuck," a voice says from behind us. "Mom! Dad!"

We chuckle as we break off our kiss, resting our foreheads together as our eyes turn to find our son standing in the doorway, a look of disgust on his face as he covers his eyes with one hand. Reluctantly, I pull my hands from Sarah's body and motion Matt forward as he peeks at us from behind his hands. "Trust me, kiddo," I say, reaching out to ruffle his hair. He rolls his eyes, but doesn't pull away as he might if we were in public. "Someday, you won't think this is so yucky."

"Harm!" Sarah protests, smacking me on the arm. "You don't need to tell him that, not for a while yet."

"But it's true," I counter. I wink at Matt. "When I was your age, I thought that girls were pretty disgusting too."

"Oh, you did, did you?" Sarah asks, a wicked gleam in her eyes.

"Well, I didn't know you back then," I remind her in a soft voice, recovering nicely, if I do say so myself. Matt just shakes his head at us.

"Did you need something, Matt?" Sarah asks.

"I'm bored," he announces. "Can I go outside?"

Sarah and I exchange a glance. By my estimation, it took him about six hours longer than usual before he started chafing about his grounding. "Why don't you play with your sisters?" I suggest. "They're upstairs."

"But they're playing with Elizabeth's dolls," he protests, a pout on his face. "I don't wanna do that."

"I'm sorry, Matt," Sarah says, "but you're grounded for a reason."

"You know that you shouldn't have pushed your sister," I add. "She could have hit the coffee table when she fell."

"But she didn't," Matt protests, and then looks down, knowing that's not what we want to hear.

"Regardless, you need to learn to live with the consequences of your actions," I continue. "After a week of not going outside and living without video games and the computer, you'll remember to think about the penalty before you do something like that again."

"I'm really sorry," he pleads. "If I promise not to do it again, can I not be grounded?"

Sarah and I look at each other and hold a wordless conversation. He does sound sorry, but we have to be firm about this. "No, Matt," Sarah finally says. "Maybe in a few days we can discuss time off for good behavior, but at this time, you're still grounded."

"That's a lawyer answer," he mutters. I have to smother a laugh at that. Having two parents who are lawyers, our older kids certainly have a better idea than most their age about the concepts of crime and punishment.

"It may be," I tell him, "but if you understand that, then you can certainly understand why Mom and I expect you to pay for what you've done. It doesn't mean that we love you any less. We just want you to be able to learn from your mistakes."

Matt stares at us, clearly not quite convinced. Right now, all he sees is that he's being punished. He doesn't really understand why it's supposed to be good for him.

"Do you want to handle this?" Sarah whispers. I give her a long suffering sigh. "I just think that you could share with him the benefit of your experience. You know, you told Sarah about Grandpa Harmon the other day. Maybe it's time you share part of that story with Matt and how it affected you and your mom. Maybe you could tell him a little about your trip to Southeast Asia."

I nod. She does have a point, and if I can share some of my experience with him, maybe he will start to understand.

"Will you be okay if I get up?" she asks. I don't have to guess what she's thinking about there.

"I'm fine," I promise. "I'll just hold that thought for later."

Smiling, she gives me a relatively chaste kiss, bringing a groan from our son, before she climbs off my lap. She pulls Matt against her in a quick hug before leaving us alone.

Matt stuffs his hands in the pockets of his jeans, staring down as he scuffs the floor with his sneaker. "Matt, Mom and I aren't mad at you anymore," I say. He looks up at me, an uncertain expression on his face. I pat my leg. "Would you like to sit down over here?"

He pauses and I think for a moment that he's about to protest that he's too old to sit in his parent's lap, but then he comes over, climbing into my lap, wrapping his arms around my waist and resting his head against my chest. "I'm sorry, Daddy," he says, his voice tentative.

"I know you are, Matt," I say, tightening my arms around him. "But do you understand why you're being punished?"

He nods against my chest. "Because I was bad," he says.

"Well, there's a little bit more to it than just that," I say. "Part of being punished is realizing that there is a penalty for your conduct, so that you will hopefully learn to avoid being punished by not repeating what you did wrong."

"Were you ever grounded when you were little?" he asks.

He's just given me the opening that I need. "A few times," I admit. "And believe it or not, I once did something much worse than you've ever done, although I was a lot older than you are now at the time. Your Grandma Trish grounded me for it, and I was mad at her because I thought that she refused to see my side of it, to understand why I did what I did. Grandpa Frank understood, I think, but he was on her side on the whole punishment thing."

"What did you do?"

I pause a moment before replying, "I ran away from home when I was sixteen."

Matt lifts his head, staring at me in wide-eyed shock. "You mean like AJ did a few years ago?" he asks. I'm surprised that he remembers that, since the twins were only three at the time that it happened, although I suppose that they may have overheard someone mention it since then.

"Yes," I reply, "but it wasn't quite the same. AJ was mad at his parents because he thought they weren't paying enough attention to him. I ran away for a different reason."

"So why did you run away?" he asks.

"Do you remember me mentioning your Grandpa Harmon?" I ask.

"Your first dad," he replies, nodding. When I'd first explained to the twins why we sometimes visit the Wall – I think they were six at the time – they'd had a hard time understanding why I call two different men 'Dad'. Trying to explain, I'd called them my 'first dad' and 'second dad', which has stuck with them ever since.

"We didn't know what had happened to Grandpa Harmon," I explain. "His jet had been shot down over a country called Vietnam in December 1969, but we didn't know if he'd been taken prisoner or had died in the crash. Mom thought that after all that time, he had to be dead, but I knew that he was still alive out there somewhere. I wanted to try to find him."

"So you ran away to try to find him," he concludes. "Did you find out what happened to him?"

"Not at that time," I say, "but eventually. Anyway, when I came home, Grandma Trish grounded me."

"Because you'd been bad," he says.

"Yes," I tell him. "Even though I thought that I was doing it for the right reasons, I was wrong to do what I did. You know, I thought that my mom hated me because I'd run away."

Matt looks down silently. I imagine that thought has occurred to him, that we're punishing him because we hate him. I understand that. That's a typical response from a child who doesn't know any better. I was older, and should have known better, but I thought that in my situation as well.

"But my mom didn't hate me," I continue. "I scared her, badly. I scared both of my parents, and my grandmother, too. My mom may have been angry with me because she was so scared, but she never hated me. It took me a long time to realize that."

"Did I scare you?" he asks tentatively.

"It's not quite the same, but yes," I reply. "When I ran into the living room, I was scared that your sister was hurt. And I was scared that you thought getting physical with your sister was the right thing to do." For a brief moment, Joseph Mackenzie and everything that he put his wife and daughter through crosses my mind. No, I think, banishing the thought from my mind. My son is better than that. "She's smaller than you are. You're supposed to help Mommy and Daddy take care of her."

"I'm sorry, Daddy," he says again. I hold him tighter.

"I know," I assure him. "Eventually, I was sorry that I'd run away, but I'd never told my mom that. It took me a long time to realize that I was wrong and that she'd done the right thing to punish me."

"How long did it take?"

I chuckle a little at the question. "Oh, much longer than I care to admit," I reply evasively. Those waters are a little too deep for us to go swimming in right now. "But you know that tomorrow is Mother's Day and we're going over to Grandma and Grandpa's for lunch? I'm finally going to tell her that I'm sorry."

As I'm explaining all this to Matt, an idea begins coalescing in my mind. Finally, I have an idea of what to say to Mom.

* * *


	7. Chapter 7

15 FEBRUARY 2001

BETHESDA NAVAL MEDICAL CENTER

BETHESDA, MARYLAND

_Sarah's asleep, so I slip away to visit the nursery, marveling as I have for the last twenty hours over the two perfect little creatures that we've brought into this world. My daughter's asleep, but Matt is wide awake, his eyes darting around as if he's trying to take everything in. After checking my armband and giving me a gown to put over my clothes, the nurse on duty lets me into the nursery to hold him. _

_As she warms up a bottle – Sarah had pumped some milk earlier today, both so that I could participate in feedings and due to the occasional logistical issues of feeding two, as she found out last night – I cradle my little boy in my arms, memorizing his tiny features._

_The nurse returns, holding the prepared bottle out to me. As I take it, she says, "Sir, there are a couple of people here to see the babies. They say that they're your parents."_

_I look up, seeing Mom and Dad standing outside the window to the nursery. I recognize the look in their eyes. It's the same one that Sarah and I have had for the last twenty hours, marveling that our children are finally here. I turn back to the nurse, nodding. "Yes, they are," I confirm. "Is it okay for them to come in here?"_

"_Of course, Sir," she says. "We can give them armbands like yours so that everyone knows that they're authorized access. If you're okay here, I can go help them get suited up."_

"_We're fine, Lieutenant," I say. "Thank you." I may not have spent much time around babies in my life, outside of my godchildren, but my son and I are good right now._

_After a few minutes, Mom and Dad join me, and I can tell they're just itching to hold their grandchildren. "I'm glad the weather finally let up enough for you to make it to the hospital," I tell them, shifting slightly in the rocker so that they can get a better look at Matt. "At least you didn't try to make it yesterday in that weather."_

"_It was hard not to," Dad admits. "We wanted to see the babies so much."_

"_I can't believe that they're finally here," Mom says in wonder as she lifts a tiny hand, letting his fingers curl around one of hers._

"_I know," I say, remembering Sarah's complaints the last few weeks about her pregnancy dragging on, especially since everyone had warned her that twins *always* come early. It's hard to consider six days as early. "I was beginning to think that they were never going to get here either. I'm sorry that Sarah's asleep," I continue, nodding towards the other crib, "but how would you like to hold your grandson, Mom?"_

"_Of course I would," Mom says with tears in her eyes. _

_Carefully, I get up from the chair and let Mom sit down. I hand her Matt, starting to direct her on how to hold him, before breaking off with a self-conscious grin as I realize what I'm doing. "I know that you've done this before," I say sheepishly._

"_Once or twice, even if it has been a long time," she jokes. She looks down at the baby in her arms, sighing. "He looks so much like you did when you were a baby."_

"_That's what Gram said," I tell her, brushing a finger against Matt's cheek as he sucks contentedly on the bottle Mom is holding for him. "But God help us all if he ends up with my personality."_

"_Oh, you weren't that bad," Mom protests with a smile. We all know better than that, but I simply nod. _

_Out of the corner of my eye, I notice movement in the other crib as Sarah stretches her arms, her eyes fluttering open. Carefully, I lift her out of the crib, holding her against my chest. "Dad, would you like to hold your granddaughter?" I ask._

"_Of course," he replies. "Unlike your mother, I haven't really been around babies much, so you can direct me all you want." Laughing, I instruct him how to hold his arms so that he's supporting her entire body, especially her head. I nod towards the nurse and she leaves to prepare another bottle. "She's got your eyes, too."_

"_Yeah," I reply. "I was kind of hoping, once I saw that she matches her mother's skin tone, that she'd have her eyes as well."_

"_It's an interesting combination," Mom says, leaning over to take a closer look. "I bet she's going to attract her share of the guys when she gets older. She is going to be gorgeous with that dark skin and those light eyes."_

"_Oh, no, no, no," I protest, shaking my head. "She's twenty hours and something minutes old. I don't want to think about boys in her life until she's at least forty."_

_Mom laughs. "Welcome to parenthood, Harm. Now you know how I felt when you started showing an interest in the opposite sex," she says. "You were still my little boy."_

"_Mom, I was fifteen," I remind her, remembering, as I'm sure that she is, when I got caught making out with Sally Webber, who lived down the street from us. It had been one of the most mortifying experiences of my life._

"_Harm, you're going to find that there are two rules now that you're a parent," she says._

"_And those would be?" I ask in a serious tone._

"_First, they will *always* be your babies," she says. As I open my mouth to protest, she adds, "Yes, no matter how old they get, even when they're thirty-seven and have children of their own. You'll always remember how tiny they were, how you held them in your arms like this. Harm, you will always be my little boy, no matter what."_

"_Sure, Mom," I say, humoring her. "And the other?"_

_As Matt finishes his bottle, she sets it aside and holds her hand out to me. "You'll never cease to be amazed at what you're willing to do to protect your children," she says, squeezing my hand._

_

* * *

_

10 MAY 2009

MCLEAN, VIRGINIA

"Happy Mother's Day, Mommy," the kids shout as we enter the bedroom. I'm carrying the breakfast tray, Matt carries the wrapped collage that we put together, while Sarah and Elizabeth both carry smaller gifts from each of the kids and from me.

Matt sets his package on the bed and then clambers up, giving his mother an enthusiastic hug. Sarah follows him up, nearly pushing her twin out of the way so that she can greet her mother as well. Shooting the twins a warning glance, as Matt looks on the verge of pushing back, I set the tray down in front of my wife before lifting Elizabeth up onto the bed to join the others.

The kitchen managed to escape without too much damage. Matt dropped an egg on the floor when getting them out of the fridge, while Sarah spilled flour on the counter while helping make the batter for the pancakes. Elizabeth was the only one who didn't participate in making a mess, but only because she's too small to reach anything that she might have made a mess with.

"This looks wonderful," Sarah says, acting surprised, just as I knew she would. She smiles in delight at each of the kids in turn. "Did all of you help make this?"

All three kids nod. "Matt helped make the omelet," I explain, "while Sarah helped with the pancakes."

"Daddy showed me how to make the pancakes into dinosaur shapes like he always does," she pipes in. "We knew you'd like that."

"Of course I do," Sarah replies, kissing our older daughter's cheek. "And the omelet looks very good, too, Matt." She kisses him as well. He mutters a little, but doesn't pull away.

"I make toast," Elizabeth interjects.

Sarah takes her into her arms, squeezing her tight. "I'm sure I'll love the toast, too," she says. "It's a good thing that there's so much food here, because I'm very hungry." She looks over the kids' heads to wink at me. The hunger isn't a surprise under normal circumstances, as she still has a very healthy appetite, but she has even more of a reason to be so now, as she informed me last night when we started picking up where we'd left off in the dining room earlier.

"So what about you guys?" she asks, cutting off a piece of pancake with her fork and swirling it around in syrup. "Aren't you going to eat?"

"We ate before we fixed your breakfast," Matt explains. "Daddy said it would be hard for all of us to eat breakfast on the bed."

"I guess that's true," she replies with a smile.

We sit in companionable silence as Sarah finishes her breakfast. She seems to really enjoy what we made for her. Unlike that long ago morning when Dad and I surprised Mom with breakfast in bed, we didn't have the blind leading the blind in the kitchen. I've started teaching the twins how to cook, so they managed to do a decent job with my supervision.

After she's finished, I set the tray on the dresser, and then sit back down on the edge of the bed. "Time for presents," the twins squeal, to laughter from their mother and me.

"So which one should I open first?" Sarah asks, smiling at their enthusiasm. It's wonderful to see the kids taking as much pleasure in giving their mother presents as they usually do in receiving gifts.

"Daddy?" Matt asks, glancing at me. Earlier, after a relatively mild debate about whose present would be opened first, I'd declared that I would make the decision on order.

"How about the big one first?" I suggest, handing her the collage. As she rips off the paper, I explain, "This is from all three of the kids."

"It's wonderful," Sarah exclaims as she tears the last of the paper away, her eyes darting from picture to picture. "These are some of my favorite pictures."

"We all painted our names on the mat," our older daughter explains. She shoots a glance at Matt as she continues, "Daddy helped Elizabeth, and he helped us decide which pictures to include."

"I think that I want to hang this in the foyer," Sarah says, setting the collage aside and wrapping her arms around the twins. Elizabeth climbs into her lap, draping her arms around her mother's neck. "That way everyone can see it when they come into the house. Now, what's next?"

I hand her a large envelope. "This one is from Elizabeth," I say.

She pulls out a single sheet of paper, smiling. Elizabeth and I had borrowed her sister's crayons and I'd helped her draw a picture, a rough drawing of a dinosaur colored in blue. "Daddy called it stega…." She looks up at me for assistance.

"A stegosaurus," I supply.

"I love it," Sarah insists, "and blue is one of my favorite colors. Thank you, Elizabeth." She kisses our daughter's forehead.

"Matt, why don't you give Mommy your present?" I suggest.

"I love this," she says after she tears the paper off a coffee table book about dinosaur tracks. "It goes nicely with your sister's present." She takes Elizabeth's present and sticks it inside the front cover of the book to protect it.

"Thank you, Mommy," Matt says, clearly pleased. Sarah has passed on her love of dinosaurs to our kids, and when Matt had seen the book in Barnes and Noble, he'd first wanted the book for himself. When we'd been trying to think of individual presents from each of the kids for Mother's Day, he changed his mind on his own and asked me to help him buy it for his mother.

"It's time for my present now," Sarah says, handing her mother a square box. My wife opens the lid and pulls out a coffee mug, with 'World's Best Mommy' painted on the side. "I made it in Brownies."

"I need a new coffee mug at work. Did Daddy tell you how mine met with an unfortunate accident?"

Sarah nods, giggling. "He said the handle broke off," she says, "but I'd already made the mug the week before."

"Then I'd say your timing was perfect. I love it."

"There's one more present for you," I say. "Elizabeth, give Mommy the other box."

"Here, Mommy," Elizabeth says, handing over the smallest of the presents, a small, black jewelry box with a red ribbon tied around it. This is my present to her, although I'd shown it to the twins a few days ago, explained the meaning behind it and got their enthusiastic approval.

Sarah pulls off the ribbon and snaps open the box, fingering the necklace inside, a white gold heart hanging from a chain, birthstones for all five of us forming the bottom of the heart. Elizabeth's birthstone forms the point, the twins' are above that on either side, and then mine and Sarah's above that, Sarah's on the left and mine on the right. Of course, I hadn't realized when I'd ordered it that it will be out of date by the end of the year.

"Pretty," Elizabeth says.

"Very," Sarah says, taking the necklace out of the box and holding it out to me. "Harm, will you help me put it on?"

I move over to sit on the edge of the bed next to her. Sarah turns slightly away from me, holding her long hair up with her hands. I fasten the necklace, and then drop a kiss onto the back of her neck. "I'll have to talk to the jeweler and find out how hard it will be to add another stone," I whisper.

"Do you want to do the honors?" she whispers back, inclining her head towards the kids.

I nod, resting my hands on her shoulders. "Kids, last night, Mommy told me something that we need to tell you," I begin. Sarah crosses one arm over her chest to cover one of my hands with hers, wrapping her fingers around mine. "Around Christmas, Mommy's going to have a baby."

"Baby?" Elizabeth asks, uncertain.

"You're going to have a younger brother or sister," I explain to her. She looks up at me, confused. Okay, explaining this to her is going to take some more thought. Sarah and I will have to think about that one. The twins kind of understood when we told them about Elizabeth, although they had been expecting a sibling they could play with right then.

The twins understand now without explanations. They remember when their mother was pregnant with Elizabeth, when Bud and Harriet had their last three, including their own set of twins, and when Carolyn gave birth to her and Jack's second daughter four months after Elizabeth was born. "I want a brother this time," Matt says emphatically.

"Sorry, but Daddy and I have no control over that," Sarah says, laughing. We had this argument with him the last time as well. "We will be happy with whatever God gives us. Hopefully, he'll send us a healthy, happy baby." Her fingers tighten around mine. Her pregnancies have always been problem free, but she will be forty-two in two months. Of course, she was just a few weeks short of her thirty-ninth birthday when Elizabeth was born. Just like before, I'm sure that everything will be fine.

* * *

Author's note: Although it wasn't intentional, I realized after I wrote this part that the baby is due around the 40th anniversary of Harm Sr's being shot down in Vietnam.


	8. Chapter 8

_MAY 2007_

_KINKEAD'S_

_WASHINGTON DC_

"_The food here is wonderful," Mom says, finishing off the last of her apple tart tatin with a satisfied sigh. "Frank and I have been exploring DC's restaurants since we got here, but we hadn't found this one yet."_

"_We don't come here often," I say, "but it is Bobbi's favorite restaurant, and she likes to hold the occasional dinner meeting here."_

_It's a bit on the pricey side for Sarah and me, so outside of dinner meetings with Bobbi, this is definitely a special occasion only restaurant for us. Sarah treated me for my fortieth birthday a few years ago, and we came here for our last anniversary, albeit two weeks late due to my being stuck in Iraq on the actual date. Today definitely qualifies as a special occasion. When they'd gotten married, I'd been hoping that Mom and Dad wouldn't last thirty days. Today, it's been thirty years since that simple ceremony on a warm spring day._

"_This is definitely one to visit again," Dad says. "This has been the best seafood meal I've had since that last meal at George's Ocean Terrace just before we left California. Harm, Mac, thank you for bringing us."_

"_We were happy to do it," Sarah assures him. "After all, it isn't every day that you celebrate a milestone like this."_

"_Thirty years," Mom sighs. "Seems like it was yesterday, doesn't it? But at the same time, it seems like we've been together forever."_

_Once, that statement might have bothered me, but not for years. Almost half of Mom's life has been spent with him. He's been her husband for nearly three quarters of my life._

_I watch indulgently as Dad takes Mom's hand in his and raises it to his lips. Such a simple gesture, but it says so much. It seems like they're more in love today than they were on the day they said 'I do'. Or is it just that I chose not to notice back then?_

_I'd almost think my wife is a mind reader, or maybe it's just that she knows me so well after over a decade, because she reaches over and takes hold of my hand, squeezing it gently. I turn and smile at her. I can concur with Mom's last sentiment with regards to my own life and marriage. I almost can't remember anymore what my life was like before that September day in 1996 when Sarah walked into my life, but I think that I'll always remember with perfect clarity every moment I've spent with her since then. My life may as well have started in the Rose Garden._

"_I think my life started the day you walked into my life," Dad says, unconsciously echoing my own thoughts. Will Sarah and I still be like that in twenty-three years? I hope so with everything that is in me._

"_Actually," Mom says in a teasing tone, "as I recall it, you walked into mine. Remember?"_

"_You know, I don't think that I've ever heard this story before," Sarah says. "Harm has told me about the first day he met Dad…"_

"_Don't remind me," I mutter. Everyone laughs a little at that._

"_I had just moved to California from Michigan," Dad begins, his eyes fixed on Mom. "My mother was still alive back then, and her birthday was coming up. She's always been an art lover, so I thought that I could find her something in that vein. Since I was new to the area, I'd asked one of the other executives I worked with if he knew of any galleries in the area."_

"_I'd just started the gallery a few months earlier," Mom continues. "My grandfather had died the previous year and my brother and I had inherited a bunch of stock that he'd owned forever. After all those years, I received a very tidy little sum when I sold it. Of course, I was a bit naïve about the whole thing. I may have had a good eye for art, but I really had no idea what went into running a business, so I was still struggling to get off the ground, trying to attract artists for exhibition and customers to buy their work. So Frank had asked his coworker of his for recommendations…"_

"_You knew his wife from somewhere," Dad picks up the story again, "from church, if I recall correctly. So somewhere along the way, she knew you had started a gallery and had mentioned it to her husband. So I ended up at Trish's gallery, and I had no clue what I was really looking for. I guess I looked obviously lost, so she walked up to me and asks if she could help. She got me talking about my mother, her likes and dislikes, and she recommended a few pieces for me to choose from."_

"_I wasn't really thinking about a relationship at the time," Mom says. "I'd gone out a few times within the past couple of years before that, but the last guy I'd dated had issues with my home life."_

_If I'm remembering the timeline correctly, that would have been the ass who had been stupid enough to tell Mom that I wasn't anything like she'd described._

"_There was no 'meet cute' or feeling of lightning striking or anything like that," Mom adds, glancing in our direction with a smile. I guess a romantic would describe my first meeting with Sarah as 'meet cute' and I definitely felt like I'd been struck by lightning, but not in the way spoken of in any love song. "But I found that Frank was very easy to talk to, and he started coming into the gallery regularly. I think the next excuse was that you'd just bought a house and were looking to dress it up with a few pieces."_

"_See, I was attracted to Trish from the beginning," Dad explains. "Of course, I didn't know that Trish was cautious about that kind of thing, or why she had reason to be. I think it was more than a month before she told me that she had a son and what had happened to her husband. It was another two before she took me home to meet Harm."_

"_Which was a very important test," I joke, "that he passed with flying colors. He didn't run screaming in the other direction when he met me."_

_As everyone laughs, Sarah looks at me. Someone else might have assured me that I surely couldn't have been that bad, but she knows me better than that._

"_We took things very slow," Mom says as the laughter dies down. "I had hoped that if I tried not to push Frank on Harm, Harm would get used to the idea of having him around and it would be easier on him."_

"_And we all know how well that turned out," I point out. _

"_They were some bumps on the road," Mom admits, putting it more politely than I might have, "but look at where we all are now."_

"_Yeah," I argue, "if you'd asked anyone thirty years ago if I'd be sitting here toasting to Mom and Dad's thirty years of marriage, they would definitely have said 'hell, no'."_

"_But we're all here now," Mom says, reaching out and taking my hand. "In the end, that's all that matters."_

_

* * *

_

10 MAY 2009

ROSSLYN, VIRGINIA

"Harm, lunch was wonderful," Mom says as we sit at the patio table, sipping coffee. The kids are playing under the watchful eyes of Sarah and Dad on the elaborate swing set Mom and Dad had built in their back yard. Elizabeth is going down the slide into her grandfather's waiting arms while Matt and Sarah try to outdo each other on the swings by seeing who can go the highest.

"Actually, you can thank Sarah," I say. "She's the one who suggested that we come over here and make something for you. I was having a hard time figuring out what to do for you."

"Harm, you're my son," she insists. "Anything you do for me is special."

"So Sarah kept trying to tell me," I say. I fall silent, my gaze falling on my playing children, marveling once again how complete my life seems.

"So are you ready for another one?" Mom asks. We broke the news to them about the new baby over lunch, much to their delight.

"I've always had it in the back of my mind that I'd like to have one more," I reply.

"Another son?" Mom asks with a grin. Matt had informed his grandparents after the announcement that he wanted a brother. I wonder if he was hoping that Grandma and Grandpa would give him a different response than the one he'd already gotten, that he just has to accept what we end up with.

"Two boys and two girls would be nice and even," I say, "but I'm going to be happy no matter what. It is a bit of a surprise, though. We hadn't talked about having another baby, especially with Sarah's age."

"You know," Mom assures me, "you hear all the time about woman having babies at Mac's age or even older. It seems to be quite the fashion these days. I'm sure everything is going to be fine, and even if something does happen, I'm sure you two will rise to the challenge."

"It will be fine," I insist. "When she had Elizabeth, she was two weeks away from her thirty-ninth birthday. That was a little less than three years ago. I'm sure the doctor is going to want to do all the tests that were done last time, but I don't want to stress about it."

I feel Mom's gaze on me and I turn to look at her. "What are you thinking?" I ask.

"You seem so settled," she says. "You have a job you love, a wife and kids you adore. In short, you have everything that I've ever wanted for you. I'm very proud of you for all that you've accomplished."

"Although I bet if someone had asked you ten years ago…" I begin.

"Nonsense," she interjects. "It just took you a little longer than most to find your way, but I've never doubted that you would."

"Thanks, Mom," I say. We fall silent for a long moment, just sitting in companionable silence watching the kids. After a few minutes, I feel her eyes on me again.

"Is there something on your mind?" she asks.

"I've just been thinking a lot the last few days," I reply after spending a moment gathering my thoughts. "One of the kids left out a photo album. It was one of those ones that you and Dad gave me for my fortieth birthday. So I started looking through it and it made me think about some things." I reach into one of the back pockets of my jeans and pull out a folded piece of paper, handing it to her.

She unfolds it, quickly reading the single sentence written on it, and then bursts out laughing. "Yeah, it is funny, at least the way I ended up putting it on there," I admit, "but something occurred to me yesterday. I was trying to explain to Matt why he needed to be grounded. I decided to use the example of my being grounded after Southeast Asia and how I eventually realized that you were right to ground me. I realized something as I was telling him the story. I've never told that I'm sorry, not only for that, but for everything that I put you through."

"Harm, I know that you're sorry," she says, taking one of my hands in hers. "I've known that for a long time. I understood, better than you probably think that I did. The irony was that you turned out to be right about your father. Some people would say that you probably would have been justified in thinking 'I told you so'."

"Actually, I did," I admit reluctantly. "Sarah's the only one I admitted that to, though, but by then, it didn't matter who was right or wrong. Dad was dead and had been for over sixteen years. I really don't know if it was then, or the second time that I went when I found out about Sergei, that I was finally able to reconcile myself to your need to move on. I don't really know if he was truly happy, but he did find some kind of peace, at the end at least. He did die a free man. I found that I was no longer able to begrudge you the happiness that you found with Frank."

"It was not long after that second trip that you started calling Frank 'Dad'," she remembers. "I knew then, you see. When he told me about it that night, you should have seen the smile on his face. He said that was probably the best gift that you've ever given him, but it was also the best gift you could have given me. That's how I knew that you were sorry."

"I guess," I say, "but I've never said the words. I think that I do need to say them, for myself as much as for you. You know, I have said sorry to Dad, at least twice that I can remember, but I've never said the words to you. So, I'm sorry, Mom, for everything that I put you through."

She smiles at me, a warm, loving smile that lights up her entire face. "Apology accepted," she says. She shakes her head. "Maybe I said that I didn't need to hear them to know how you feel, but it is nice to hear you finally say them. It means a lot to me."

"I'm glad," I say. "Happy Mother's Day, Mom."


End file.
